Every now and again we in the media get an opportunity to do some good.
For instance, 20 years ago I used this space to remind readers that while Friendly’s service always ranked somewhere between “Hunger Strike” and “Eternity,” they did serve up delicious ice cream, and their Fishwich sandwiches were royalty for those of us who believe Atlantic cod should be paired with toast and Velveeta.
Enough of you continued to patronize Friendly’s, and now 90 years after its debut, 100 shops remain open – most with the skeletons of those original customers slumped in their booths. Still waiting.
I take credit for Friendly’s survival just as I will soon take credit for this nugget of recently acquired knowledge: Drinking water is important.
Our story begins almost a month ago to the day.
The logistics of our summer family getaway up and down the East Coast included taking two vehicles. My wife Jen and daughter Emerita, 10, traveled in the Highlander and I and my alias Johnny Cash traveled and sang in the cab of my trusty Sierra pickup.
Pertinent to the story is how the girls’ rig contained multiple bottles of water, Capri Suns, iced teas and various other refreshments. Pretty sure I spotted a Keurig coffee maker plugged into the cig lighter.
Meanwhile, over in the pickup truck, I had thoughtfully packed a single 16-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. For two and a half days of driving.
The ol’ bladder ain’t what it used to be. When I was a younger fellow, I could knock back three, sometimes four, beers in the same day and hit the bathroom only a dozen times. Now I’m mentally clearing a path to the men’s room before the bartender’s hand reaches the lager lever.
So, when it comes to packing fluids on a long drive, I travel light.
Every few hours, we’d wing off the interstate for fuel and access to EPA-approved bathrooms — as opposed to what may or not have been used while stuck in a gridlocked Philadelphia overpass.
During those pit stops, the girls would re-stock water or juice while I tilted my head back and captured stray raindrops. Consequently, our pit stops were few in number.
We arrived at our destination in the middle of the third day. That Sunday coincided with the day we were scheduled to go to press with last month’s issue of Whip’s Wheels. I generally get around to writing this column and some headlines and captions on the day the paper is shipped electronically to the printers.
Two and a half days traveling with temps in high 90s was not good to me.
I unloaded the vehicles, took a shower and a few more aspirin to offset a kettle drum headache. Then I opened the laptop and announced to no one: OK, I have two column choices. The first is something about my wretched lawn tractor. The second is … uh … hmmm. Maybe there isn’t a second choice. There was a second choice two days earlier. But now that idea was vapor.
Yes, the column is about the tractor and how …. my thought dropped off halfway to the period. Rather than two solid leads for column ideas, I was straining to get even one to the finish line.
I gave up trying to complete the thought and figured maybe if I started typing, my little essay would drop into place.
But the headache and nausea didn’t let up. Nothing stayed down including my blood pressure. I concentrated on the opening sentence as hard as a Methuen High graduate could (See also: Wall-less Learning Experiment). Words made less sense than usual. So I re-arranged them. Again and again. After a half-hour, I had less than a paragraph and what I had looked like a pair of run-on sentences had collided.
With foggy head, I stood up and called Scott, our wizard graphic designer who lays out these pages.
“For the first time in 35 years, I don’t have a column,” I said. “Something’s wrong. I dunno if I had a stroke, but the muscles are working OK. Just can’t think straight.”
Scott offered to finish the issue the following day, which I gratefully agreed to before shuffling off to sleep-sofa. Without bothering to sip water.
Scott texted me in the morning, “Are you OK?”
“Not really. Why do you ask?”
He forwarded me some “instructions” I had sent to him the night before. I ran them through the Bat-computer, which promptly gave its notice. Whatever words I was trying to corral into proper sentences clearly weren’t going quietly. Nothing made sense.
I opened my laptop and immediately called for my mom to take a look at my handiwork from the night before. Two long lines of incomprehension. Like Elton John hacked my computer.
After a hearty breakfast of strangled eggs, Pop Tarts and OJ, I sat down to take another shot at trying to write something that didn’t require AI to translate to earthling speak.
By the end of the day, the same symptoms had returned, but not before I had raced to complete my column about my quick-but-rebellious lawn mower. I explained to a friend at the printers how the unknown ailment left me intact except for confusion, elevated blood pressure and a wicked headache.
He listened for a spell, then announced, “Yeah, Whip, that’s severe dehydration. Your blood thickens and doesn’t carry enough oxygen to your brain. You can’t think right.”
Who would have thought about 20 ounces of fluid over 3 days during a heatwave would have caused a problem?
Roger advocated for a daily supplement of electrolytes to help rehydrate whatever those things hydrate in the first place. They’re a key ingredient in Gatorade alongside YFC (Yuck! Flavor Crystals). For those of you who, like me, never experienced the troubling effects of severe dehydration, now you know what to expect when your internal water tank goes dry. Hydrate, my friends!
Together, one article at a time, we shall make newspapers readable for writer and reader. Cheers!
